Chapter 16  

En-colored velvet stitched with silver thread, blue hose, a silver chain and a pair of soft brown boots: for tonight, the servants had said, when they laid out the clothing. Tristen was amazed.

Cefwyn had sent it, and the servants, with other clothes and other gifts, including finer clothing for Uwen, all for the expected dinner summons.

“Surely fine feathers for the like of me,” Uwen said with a shake of his head. Uwen had shaved, and a servant had trimmed his silver hair. “Such as,” Uwen said, rubbing the bald spot, “such as there is, m’lord.” Uwen’s hair shone pale and silver with the preparations the servants had brought, and they smelled, both, of perfumed oils and bathwater.

It pleased him that Uwen was pleased. He loved the touch and feel of the fine cloth and the softness of the new boots, and he was only a little anxious as they crossed the hall, assured by the servants that it was the proper hour for supper with the Prince, and that the table was waiting for them.

The guards let them in without delay, and they walked into a room fragrant with delicious smells, scented candles, the table set with candlelit gold—a Harper sat in the corner, and began a quiet Music. The Words came to Tristen with the first sounds—and the sounds transfixed him, went through his ears, through his heart, through his bones, so that he stopped still, and stared, and did not move until Idrys came beside him and brushed his arm, directing him to the table.  It was so beautiful. It was so unexpected a thing.

He bowed to Cefwyn before his wits thought to do it—he recovered

! himself, saw that Cefwyn’s habitual russet velvet had given way to red with gold embroidering. Even Idrys’ sober black now was velvet picked out with silver. The music washed at his senses, the smells, the glitter of light on gold and beautiful colored glass—hearing, smelling, seeing, remembering to be polite—all flooded in on him.

“Sit,” Cefwyn bade him, taking a chair at one end, while the harper kept playing softly, sound that ran like water, caressed like the harper’s fingers on the strings.

He sat. Cefwyn bade Uwen and Idrys to table. Annas was there, and servants young and old, who poured them wine and served them food in little dishes made of silver and gold.

Between such servings the harper sang for them, sang in Words, a Song of a shepherd with his sheep, a Song of dawn and evening, a Song of traveling on the river, and of a man far from his home. He was entranced. And after that, Cefwyn talked of horses and how Gery fared, and how he had two horses, Danvy and Kanwy, and how he had Kanwy’s brother Dys up at another pasture, and they should ride up there someday and see.

It was so much coming at one time, so much to listen to, so much to imagine that he found it hard to eat—taste was another flood into his senses, sweet and bitter, hot and cold: there were so, so many things to listen to and to look at, from the glass on the table to the several colors of the wine, and the sound of the harp, and a rapid conversation in which he only knew how to say, Yes, m’lord Prince; or, No, m’lord Prince—foolish, helpless answers to what he was sure were Cefwyn’s efforts to draw more conversation than that from him.

But even Idrys was soft-spoken, even Idrys smiled and laughed and, uneasy as Uwen had looked at the outset, Uwen became willing to laugh, even to speak from time to time. The harper played more songs, these without words, cheerful and bright, and Cefwyn told Annas take the dishes, and bade Idrys and Uwen sit still at table—”Stay,” Cefwyn said.

“Tristen and I have matters to discuss. Annas, whatever they might wish.

Two soldiers can pass time over a wine pitcher. —Tristen, come over here and share a cup with me.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and, following Cefwyn to a group of chairs remote from the table, sat where Cefwyn bade him sit. Annas came and offered him a cup of wine, different than that he had left at table—but he only sipped it, and poised it in both hands so more wine could not come into it without his noticing: he had learned to be wary of Cefwyn’s generosity.

“So,” Cefwyn said, crossing one ankle over another, in possession of his own cup, which he held in similar fashion, “how does Gery fare?”

“She cut her leg,” Tristen said. “Master Haman says it’s slight. But I shouldn’t have ridden her so hard. I’m very sorry, sir. I’m sorry she was hurt.”

“I’m glad you didn’t break your neck.”

“Yes, sir.” It sounded like one of Mauryl’s sort of utterances, with rebuke directly to follow.

“Do you remember Uwen taking you to his saddle?”

“Not clearly, m’lord Prince.”

“You seem to have cast your spell over Uwen. The man and your staff had strictest orders to report to me if you waked, and, lo! they go following you about, here and there, upstairs and down, with never a thought of my orders in their heads. Did you bid them do that?”

“I beg you don’t blame him. It was my fault. He asked me to wait. I disobeyed him. He was trying to catch me. And I knew better, sir. I did know better. Not about your order. But I knew I made him chase me, because I wanted to go outside. I know it was wrong.”

Cefwyn’s brow lifted. A long moment Cefwyn simply stared at him.

“You know that Uwen is at your orders as well as mine.”  “I know, sir.”

“But you obey him, do you?”

“He’s my guard, is he not, sir?”

“He is your man.” Cefwyn waved his hand, dismissing the question.

“He chose this morning to take his allegiance with you. Therefore I release him to give oath to you, and, for good or for ill, you provide for him. —Racing about just ahead of us, out to the yard and back again to the archive and searching up a book—hardly the place I’d seek a young man in a soldier’s company.”

This was not, then, a casual questioning. He wished himself back in his own room, his old room, not this huge place opposite Cefwyn’s apartment. He perceived he had brought Uwen into difficulty.

“Do I distress you?” Cefwyn asked. “Why did you go to the archive, out of all places you could go? What sent you there, instead of—say—the garden, or anywhere else of your habit?”

“I wished—” He found himself on ground more and more frightening.

“I wished to know more about Althalen.’  “Why?”

It was hard to speak. He had not been able to explain to Uwen. He tried, at least to explain it to Cefwyn. “It’s a Name, sir. I know it. I asked the archivist was there anything to tell me about Althalen. And he gave me that book. —Was it wrong?”

“Not wrong. Perhaps it’s not what you wish to find. It’s my grandfather’s history. Did you know that?”  “No, m’lord Prince.”

“My name is Cefwyn Marhanen. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No, sir.” It did not. “Not except that you have two names.”

“Elfwyn. Do you know that name?”

“I don’t know that name either, sir.”

“Sihhé.”

“People say that I am Sihhé.”

“Are you?”

“I’ve read—” He sensed in all these questions that this was purposeful and far more important than Cefwyn’s simple curiosity, and he suspected now that all this evening had been leading to this strange chain of Words and Names. “I read in the book that the Sihhé were cruel wizards. And it’s a Name, sir, but I don’t understand it—not—that it makes sense to me. Mauryl was a wizard, but he was never cruel. He said I should be polite, and I should think about others’ wishes and not touch what doesn’t belong to me. I don’t think that leads to being cruel, sir. So it isn’t Mauryl, either.”

“No. It doesn’t seem so.” Cefwyn gazed at him and sipped his wine, and went on looking at him, seeming strangely troubled. “Mauryl brought the Sihhé kings to power. Have you heard that? Do you think that is true?”

“I—don’t know, sir.”

“But it doesn’t trouble you.”